More short-lived than a flower.
Joy on, joy on, then, whilst ye may,
Nor waste the moments dear,
Nor give yourselves a cause to sigh,
Nor teach to shed a tear.
SCRAPS.--No. II.
LINES TO A WITHERED ROSE.
I cast thee from me, poor child of day
Like the lost heart that bore thee now wither'd and dead,
To open no more in the sunshiny ray.